She handed him an old photograph and he turned it over in his hands for a few seconds before handing it back, totally unimpressed. “What is it?”
“This is the only known photograph of the journal they stole. It was taken in the 1920s.”
He glanced at the tiny book though the gloom and deterioration of nearly a century of wear and tear. “And this shitty bit of crap is why those assholes tried to shoot up my plane?”
“This shitty bit of crap, as you put it, is the only clue we have that proves Shambhala was real.”
Decker turned to her and frowned. “And what the hell is Shambhala?”
“It’s an ancient Tibetan kingdom,” she said.
Riley cleared his throat. “An ancient mythical kingdom.”
“You got my plane shot up for a myth?” Decker said.
“But that’s just it,” Selena continued, holding the photograph up between their faces. “Thanks to this we know it’s not a myth any longer — it’s as real as your bad attitude, Mr Decker.”
“Hey! Watch it, lady,” Decker said. “It was my bad attitude that just saved…”
Selena sighed. “That saved our asses, yes, I get it.”
“And you could show a little more gratitude, you know that?”
“We’re both very grateful,” Riley said.
“I’m giving you twenty thousand dollars!” Selena protested. “I would have thought that was a good enough expression of my appreciation.”
“Hmmm,” Decker said, returning his attention to the instruments. “And the deal was twenty-five thousand dollars as I recall.”
“Was it?” she said. She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms.
“It was.”
“Yeah, it was, Lena,” Riley chipped in. “Sorry.”
“Oh, good one, Riley.”
The Australian looked at her with narrowing eyes. “Oh… you did that on purpose, sorry.”
“Just trying to see if Mr Decker here was paying attention to detail,” Selena said in Cantonese.
Riley replied in Cantonese, “Now you know.”
“Yes, and I can speak some Cantonese as well,” Decker said in the same language.
“Can you now?” Selena said, switching back to English. “I’m impressed.”
“I wasn’t trying to impress anyone,” Decker said. “Least of all you.”
Selena peered out the window at the coast of southern China, visible in patches through gaps in the thick cloud below. “You’re rather rude, aren’t you?”
“Take it any way you want, just don’t get upset about it.”
“Upset?” she said, turning to face him. “I’m not upset. When we get to Bangkok I’ll never seen you again.”
“Fine with me, lady. Just as soon as I get my money I’ll never see you again either.”
“Then that’s settled then,” Riley said, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. “And in the meantime you kids play nice while I grab me forty winks. I’m sure I can make a nice bed out of that sea of smashed ceramic cats back there.”
Decker watched him leave and returned his gaze to the instruments before scanning the horizon for a few moments. Beside him, Selena stared out across the ocean of clouds stretching away from the vintage aircraft.
“I can’t believe Shambhala is out there somewhere, just waiting to be discovered.”
Decker smirked. “Oh yeah, I forgot — the place that doesn’t exist. Go on.”
“Oh my gosh, you are so tiring.”
“Me? You’re so boring you could send an elephant to sleep.”
“Hey! Wait a minute, what does that even mean?”
“Huh?”
“The elephant thing.”
“They hardly ever sleep.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Three hours a night.”
“Oh, I never knew that.”
“Well, shit in my hat and spin it to the moon. You mean you don’t know everything?”
“I only know useful things, Mr Decker. Knowing how many hours an elephant sleeps every night does not fit into that category.”
“Would you two keep it down,” Riley yelled through the door. “Former war vet back here trying to get some sleep on a bed of broken cats.”
“Sorry, Riley,” Selena shouted back.
Decker turned to her. “Former war vet?”
“He was in the Australian SAS. Never talks about it.”
He nodded once. Good to know. Mitch Decker was no stranger to the occasional bar fight or drunken brawl, and his new life running cargo all over Asia had supplied him with more than enough adventures and experiences to last a lifetime. Still, he was a man who knew his limitations, and fighting with a former Special Forces man with SAS experience was certainly over the line even with his military experience.
“So you spend your life chasing fairy tales, huh?”
“It’s no fairy tale, Mr Decker, but yes… making discoveries like this is our bread and butter.”
“Please, you can call me Mitch.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“It just doesn’t feel right. I think it’s a bit like when they say never give a pig a name if you’re going to have to send it to the slaughterhouse.”
He turned sharply. “What the hell?”
“We’re never going to see each other after Bangkok and I hardly know you.”
“Are you being English right now?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Like the whole tea and crumpets thing. Have I broken some sort of social protocol that the lower orders don’t know about?”
“Hardly, although you’re certainly from the lower orders.”
Decker opened his mouth to reply but Selena spoke again before he’d even thought of the words. “I’m going for a short nap as well. We can talk about the rest later. I want to be bright and fresh when we get to Bangkok. Getting hold of the journal is essential if I’m going to find Shambhala.”
“Plus my cash.”
A sigh. “Yes, of course your cash.”
Decker sighed with relief when she left the cockpit. He loosened his belt and then yawned and stretched his arms. Peace, at last. He reviewed the instruments once again and then settled back to enjoy the view. Thousands of feet below was the steamy coast of Guangdong Province and ahead was the promise of Bangkok.
Decker liked Thailand and was always pleased when a job took him there because it meant a few days of catching up with old friends and sinking a few beers in a rooftop bar like Above Eleven in Sukhumvit. Here he liked to sit and talk about the old times as he watched the sun set over the city with a cold Singha in his hand. What the experience would be like with Selena Moore and Riley Carr, he had no idea, but he’d be twenty-five grand richer, tax-free, and that was a lot of aviation fuel and beer.
He pushed back into the seat and decided to enjoy the peace while it lasted.
3
Rakesh Madan surveyed the chaos that was Mumbai from the serene peace of Jambudvipa — his personal super yacht that was moored in the city’s famous marina. The sun was slowly making its way toward the western horizon and coloring the upmarket neighborhoods of Cumballa Hill and Malabar Hill and the Arabian Sea beyond them in a deep amber glow.
He dropped a wedge of lime into his Beefeater gin and tonic and took a long, considered sip. He appreciated the finer things in life, and enjoyed the botanicals in this particular gin, especially the orange peel. The alcohol seeped into every fiber of his body and he sighed as he felt the sedation calm his inner rage.
He strolled out to the rear deck and sat on one of the many leather seats strewn about on the polished teak. From here he was able to watch the city in safety and silence as millions of people went about their business like dung beetles. He wondered idly how many of those dung beetles he was seeing actually worked for one of his corporations. Not many, he concluded, given the high price of real estate in these parts.